


And I hope you know that I want you (I've been sitting here waiting, waiting for you)

by AllHatsAreDumb



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllHatsAreDumb/pseuds/AllHatsAreDumb
Summary: There was no doubt that you and Sergeant Amy Santiago worked well together, just the two of you. So why did she want to bring another detective onto your case, a complete stranger to you?On the other hand, after reviewing the case again, you suddenly realized you'd need all the help you could get...You get to be friends with Amy and girlfriends with Rosa in the slowest of burns. Oh, and you're a badass lawyer. What more could you want?





	1. You've been thinking, overthinking, you've been thinking, babe (just a little too much)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic and tbh I mainly wrote it for myself just to try to get back into creative writing so pls be kind :) I know it needs work but I've been staring at it for too long so YEET here goes nothing!!
> 
> Oh, and in case you were wondering, the fic and chapter titles come from the song "Waiting for You" by The Aces :)

As soon as you both pulled out matching color-coded binders on the day you met, you knew you’d get along with Amy Santiago. 

You were a criminal prosecutor, an assistant to the Brooklyn DA. Amy (You don’t have to call me Sergeant Santiago, Amy’s fine, she had said) was working with you to prepare for the upcoming trial of Alison Backman, a woman charged with four counts of armed robbery. Working with Amy soon became the best part of your job. Eventually, as the work piled up, the two of you found your go-to cafes, sandwich shops, and even an ice cream store where you’d start by reviewing the Backman case and soon get caught up in tangents about beloved childhood books (Jo was my favorite March sister too!), office supplies (Wite-Out tape is so underrated!), and punctuation (Finally, someone who appreciates semicolons as much as I do!). And even though you had so much in common, you still managed to balance each other out. Your occasional cynicism and slight remnants of a teen angst you’d never truly outgrown were mellowed by Amy’s cheerfulness and warmth. She was so open, you thought, so unafraid to let herself be seen.

At times, you wished you could be like that too. 

Some people saw the walls you’d built around yourself as hard edges, but Amy knew better. She never pressured you to talk about your personal life, and you almost never did. But she knew there was a lot more to you than most people would ever realize. You understood each other that way. But if there was one thing you both loved more than any of your shared hobbies or trips to the cafe, it was your jobs, so you always found a way to get back to the case. There was no doubt that you and Amy worked well together, just the two of you. That’s why you were surprised when, on the morning just after you had an hour-long conversation about Pilot G2-07 pens, Amy told you she wanted to bring in another detective. 

“Amy, you know I have complete faith in you, but do you really think we need another person on this case?” you asked her over the phone.

“I know,” Amy started, “but Rosa---I mean, Detective Diaz---I really think she could help us out.”

She said they’d be in the lobby of the DA’s office in ten minutes. You stayed up far too late the night before reviewing the Backman case, so you were just tired enough not to feel too much of anything for very long. Your annoyance faded to acceptance as you let the elevator carry you to this new detective. 

You heard a ding as the elevator doors opened to the lobby. You could see Amy waving at you, flagging you over. As the old elevator doors squeaked shut, you started toward Amy and this stranger by her side, although you couldn’t quite tell what she looked like from that far away.

Until, suddenly, you could.

Amy probably greeted you at some point, but you couldn’t remember what either of you said. You didn’t even remember walking over to her once you left the elevator. The next thing you remember is:  
“ADA (y/f/n) (y/l/n), this is Detective Rosa Diaz,” said Amy.

And you remember the rest perfectly.

Your mother was a stickler for manners. Soon after you learned addition and subtraction, you knew to place your napkin on your lap at dinner, answer the phone with a proper greeting, and to never, ever stare at someone. But now, looking into Detective Diaz’s deep brown eyes as you introduced yourself, you couldn’t help but break that last rule. You’d never seen anyone that beautiful before. Everything about her was perfect: the way her eyes didn’t quite look at you, but through you; the way her hands rested on her badge with an easy assuredness; even her style: that beat-up leather jacket, that watch peeking out of the cuffs…Wait. The watch pulled you back to reality. 

Oh my God, you realized, how much time has passed since you’ve been staring at her? 

You couldn’t look for too long or things would get really weird really fast---even weirder than this morning already felt for you. You were quick to break the momentary silence between you and the detective, even though you could’ve sworn you weren’t the only one staring.  
“You can call me (y/l/n/),” you said, trying to sound both professional and amiable at the same time. As much as you disliked the excessive formality of “ADA” attached to your name, you weren’t one for first names in the office, either. It was too intimate, too personal, as if your coworkers were entitled to address you in the same way as your family or friends or significant other. Not that you had a significant other. 

“Call me Diaz,” she said. Amy’s eyes began to grow wide, only returning to their normal size when Diaz shot her a piercing glare. 

Amy recovered. “Diaz is one of the best detectives from the 99th precinct,” she beamed. “She’s investigating a robbery that’s similar to Backman’s, so I thought she’d be a great asset for us.”

Diaz continued from there. “There are some similarities in the cases that have led us to believe they may be connected. There’s a possibility that my perp may have been imitating yours. Or they were working together.”

You looked at Amy and then back at Diaz. She would certainly be valuable to your trial prep, but you had some concerns. A lot of concerns, actually. You and Amy were alike that way: always concerned about something. For starters, there would be some glaring confidentiality issues with bringing a new detective onto a case. 

“It’d be great to have you, Diaz,” you started, trying not to stammer too much as your eyes found the courage to meet hers, “but I should probably check with my boss first.” 

“I already did,” Amy interjected, “I sent over the paperwork last night, and he approved it this morning.” 

You grinned. You and Amy were alike that way, too: If you needed something done, you’d pull out all the stops to do it right. Hopefully, Diaz would be willing to do the same. You hadn’t told Amy yet, but after reviewing the case again last night, you’d realized that the two of you needed all the help you could get. 

Diaz excused herself to run to the restroom, leaving you and Amy alone.

“Now I know she’s tough, but she’s a really good detective,” Amy assured you, even though you had no doubt about either of those two things.

“Amy, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, always.”

You smiled. “Why were you surprised when she said I could call her Diaz?”

Amy opened her mouth and then quickly closed it, like she was about to deny her surprise and then thought the better of it. She wasn’t exactly a great liar. At least she’d never perjure herself on a witness stand. 

“She usually makes everyone she works with call her Detective Diaz, or even just Detective,” Amy explained. “It’s just out of character for her to let someone she’s just met call her Diaz, that’s all.”

“Oh,” you managed to say, looking away from Amy. Before you could overanalyze the situation any further, Diaz came back.  
“All right,” you said, “Let’s get to work.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You, Amy, and Diaz were in your office going over the Backman case. 

“Okay, so we know that Backman robbed a Starbucks, a Saladworks, an Italian restaurant, and an ice cream shop,” Amy said to no one in particular. 

“Allegedly robbed,” you couldn’t help but remind her. 

“Right, sorry,” she said, “It’s just so obvious that she’s the Four-Course Robber.” 

That was the tongue-in-cheek nickname given to the faceless perp before Backman was arrested. The robber had stolen cash from four businesses in an order mimicking the courses of a meal. Detective Boyle, whom you’d met once before when you caught up with Amy at their food truck (pre-arson), was quick to point out that the name was flawed (But beverages are not a course! Starbucks shouldn’t count! Don’t you people know anything about fine dining?). But despite its apparent inaccuracies, the name was both catchy and completely unprofessional, so of course it stuck. 

Any time someone said that ridiculous nickname, you always snickered just a bit. But after Amy’s comment about Backman, the case didn’t seem quite as funny. You knit your brows together; you weren’t sure why you were reacting like this. After all, winning the case would do wonders for your fledgling career. It was hard enough being a young prosecutor, especially as a bisexual woman of color. This was the perfect opportunity to prove yourself in a workplace full of middle-aged, straight, white dudes. Still, you felt something nagging at you. 

“Why do you think it’s obvious?” you asked, trying to seem like your inquiry was a mental exercise rather than a genuine question. 

“Well…” Amy started. You could feel your jaw tensing just a little. Diaz’s fingers danced around her belt until they found her badge, where they stayed. She was interested; you could tell.

“Less than twenty-four hours after each robbery, Backman made a deposit at her bank that matched the total amount stolen,” said Amy.

“That’s true, but they were pretty round numbers. Anyone with an upcoming college graduation and rich old relatives could have deposited $500.”

“But,” said Amy, furrowing her brows, “all four robberies were committed by someone who matched Backman’s physical description. And she has two priors.”

“Yea, but for nonviolent drug crimes,” Diaz chimed in, “that’s not exactly the same as four counts of armed robbery.”

You turned your head in surprise. She had definitely studied up. 

At that point, Amy looked baffled. 

“You guys, we’ve been through this. We got her,” she said. Unable to meet her gaze, your eyes darted down to the carpeted floor. It could really use a vacuuming, you noticed, staring almost as intently as you did at Diaz just an hour earlier.

“(y/l/n),” Amy continued, “Don’t doubt yourself. You’re a smart, strong, powerful woman! You’ve got this!” 

“It’s not that,” you said, forcing yourself to look up from the floor and make eye contact with Amy. Normally her female empowerment speeches were the only thing that could motivate you after a setback. But this time, it wasn’t yourself that you were doubting. It was your case. 

“What is it then?” Amy asked, looking right at you. Even Rosa looked up, pushing away the shiny, dark curls that fell across her face as her eyes met yours. Concentrate, you thought to yourself. Usually, you were too absorbed in your work to focus on anything else. This was a first for you. This case really had you rattled, you figured at the time. 

You took a deep breath. 

“I think Backman’s innocent.”

“What?!” Amy stammered, “Does that mean you think…” 

“I think the robber is still out there.”


	2. But you ain't good at reading signals (when they come straight from the heart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody,
> 
> Sorry this took so long to upload! I mentioned this in the comments, but if you didn't see it, my computer started acting up and I lost my draft of Chapter 2 and had to rewrite everything :((( But better late than never!
> 
> Also, thanks again to everyone who commented and left kudos. Your encouragement really helped inspire me to keep going even when rewriting everything all over again got super frustrating! 
> 
> Thanks everyone:)

The next morning you heard the _click clack_ of Amy Santiago’s trademark “sensible heels” (1.5 inches, solid beige) as she entered your office accompanied by Diaz, three bagels, and her binder, which appeared just a bit thicker than the last time you saw it.

“You like it? I added cascading tabs.”

  
“Nice,” you said, trying to be supportive, trying to act normal, like you didn’t just completely go against all of the work you’d both been doing for the past few months.

  
“Yeah, she only uses cascading tabs for very important matters,” Diaz said with a sideways glance at Amy, who you could’ve sworn shot back a glare at Diaz.

  
“Anyway,” Amy continued, swallowing hard, “I decided to re-organize it after I went through all of the evidence again last night.”

  
“I mean, that’s great,” you said, wanting to sound appreciative, “but why did you go through everything again?”

  
“Because I know Backman did it. And I think you do too.”

  
“Amy…”

  
“Look, I’m not mad,” she started, bringing her hands out in front of her face, “I just don’t want to see you throw away all the hard work you’ve done to put her behind bars.”

  
“But that’s the thing…” you wavered, “what if I’m putting the wrong woman behind bars?”

  
“You’re not,” she said. “We’ve been working on this case for months after they arrested her. Everything points to her.”

  
“I’m not so sure it does.”

  
She waved her arm out to the side before dropping it like she just lost an arm wrestle with Sergeant Jeffords. That night at Shaw’s was the only time you met him. But it certainly wasn’t the only time you’d met Five-Drink Amy. Either way, you hated seeing her look so defeated, especially at you.

  
“Amy, I really appreciate your help with the case,” you offered, “I really do. I’m just trying to do my job and do it right.”

  
She smiled, tilting her head at you. “I know that,” she said, “And you are doing it right. I can tell you’re not just after a promotion by how cautious you’re being with this case.”

  
You gave her an appreciative nod. You weren’t good with showing emotions. Or emotions in general, really. Luckily, she continued before you could do anything weird and mess it up.

  
“But the Nine-Four knew what they were doing when they arrested Backman. You know what you’re doing now that you’re getting ready for her trial. And you have to trust yourself.” She paused, turning to Diaz.

  
“Rosa, don’t you agree?”

  
You and Amy looked at Diaz, whose eyes grew wide and then immediately shot back toward Amy. You hadn’t even realized that, up until now, she’d been looking at you this whole time.

  
“Look, dude,” she started, “You know I’ve always got your back.”

  
“I know,” Amy replied without missing a beat. “We’re the Sleuth Sisters.”

  
You felt your lips curl into a dumb grin. You were going to press for more details about the name, but as soon as you saw Diaz’s hands anxiously encircling her badge, you knew you’d have to let it go. For the time being. (You’d totally ask Amy about it later. More specifically, One-Drink Amy.) But right now, you could tell Diaz had something on her mind.

  
“But…” Diaz continued, “I think (y/l/n) has a point here.”

  
Amy brought her arms out again. “Rosa, do you really think Backman’s innocent?”

  
Diaz paused. “I think we should at least look into that possibility.”

You could tell that Rosa Diaz chose her words carefully. You always admired that in a person, someone who could sift through their thoughts as if they were stringing together the perfect sequence of phrases and inflections and pauses just for you. It made you feel noticed, seen, like what you had to say was important to them. That’s what you saw in Diaz, although you were sure she was far more selective with her words than she let on.

Amy let out a sigh. “Okay, well you know I have total trust in you both,” she said, looking at you and Diaz.

“How about this? I’ve been working with (y/l/n) on proving Backman is the Four Course Robber for the last four months. But we’ve only scratched the surface of what the defense will try to say about our evidence.” She paused.

  
“I know that with our work so far, I can make a strong case that she did it. And I do think she did it,” she continued, “But Rosa, how about you work with (y/l/n), maybe compare your case with this one side-by-side, and try to make the case that Backman didn’t do it? And then we’ll compare our notes and take it from there. What do you think?”

  
That’s why you were glad to have Amy in your life: sometimes she didn’t know exactly what to say, but she always knew what to do.

  
“Sounds good to me,” you said.

  
“Good,” said Amy with an expecting grin, “Rosa?”

  
Diaz glanced at you and then at Amy as her weight shifted from foot to foot.

  
“Okay,” she finally replied.

  
“Okay,” Amy echoed, “I have to run across the street to Family Court, but I shouldn’t be too long. You two should start without me though!” She gathered her binder, cascading tabs and all, and shut the door to your office.

Agreeing to the plan was one thing. But as soon as Amy left for the precinct, you realized what you’d truly committed to. Normally, working one-on-one with a detective---especially one who was so smart and determined and clearly interested in your case---would be a huge benefit to you. But you’d never worked with a detective like Rosa Diaz before. You knew how to communicate with colleagues about trial prep and hearing dates, sure, but none of them ever made you so flustered that you had to give yourself a pep talk just to look them in the eye.

For a minute, neither of you said anything. You shuffled through your papers, eyes glued to the yellow legal pad on your desk.

  
“Okay,” you said, looking up at Diaz, “so…uh…do you have any ideas about where we should start?”

  
“It’s your case,” Diaz replied without missing a beat, “what do you think?” You both paused.

  
_Great,_ you thought, _this is going to be so, so awkward._

  
“Well,” you offered, “I know we’re here to work on my case, but do you want to tell me a bit more about yours? I feel like I don’t know enough about it, especially since you already know so much about mine.”

  
“Oh, I mean, it’s cool,” Diaz replied. “It’s my job. And your case is pretty dope.”

  
“It is, isn’t it?” you laughed, “I’m glad you think so too.”

  
“Ha. Yeah.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Another pause. The two of you looked at each other, and then looked away, until you cleared your throat.

  
“But either way, you know, it’s my job to do everything I can to prepare for this trial.” You said. “And that includes looking at the possibility that our cases are connected. So tell me about yours,” you said.

  
Diaz gave you a head nod. “We don’t have a name yet, just a physical description from witnesses,” she started, going straight into the details. “The perp’s robbed two liquor stores so far.”

  
“So far?”

  
“We have reason to believe he’ll strike again.”

  
“Why? Because he hasn’t been caught yet, or…”

  
“Exactly. He’s getting cocky.”

  
You nodded. “So, were either of the liquor stores close to the places where the Four Course Robber…” you trailed off. Your right leg started to shake, an old habit from grade school that never subsided. “Sorry, it’s just so hard to take our work seriously with that dumb name.”

  
“Agreed,” she replied, pausing for a moment. Her gaze drifted from your eyes to your right leg to your hands, which were gripping the legal pad full of notes you’d already memorized. She almost looked as if she were studying you. Finally, her unblinking brown eyes met yours again as she asked:

  
“You’re trying not to say ‘Backman,’ aren’t you?”

  
You gripped the legal pad even tighter. “Damn Diaz,” you said, “you’re good.”

  
Diaz gave you a little half-smile---this time you were sure of it. You smiled back at her, for just a moment, before continuing.

  
“Do you mind?” you asked, “It’s just…”

  
“I get it,” she replied, “you don’t want to put away the wrong person. I think it’s…” Now Diaz’s voice trailed off. Her hands left her badge as she played with the hem of her leather jacket.

  
“Admirable,” she finally uttered, “I think…I think it’s admirable.”

  
Until this point, you’d never heard Rosa Diaz so much as stutter, or even pause for that long. Even though you knew she chose her words so very carefully, you’d never seen her be at a loss for them before. You weren’t exactly sure why she was as passionate as you were about wrongful conviction, but you were glad to have someone else on your side.

  
“I appreciate that,” you said, “Thanks, Diaz.”

  
She looked like she was about to respond with something else, something more, but decided instead to say:

  
“Sure.”

  
You both paused, studying the floor of your office.

  
“But we can’t keep saying the Four Course Robber,” you said.

  
“No way.”

  
“It’s just so juvenile.”

  
“Very dumb.”

  
You smiled. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

  
“Yeah, me too,” said Diaz. She stopped fiddling with her jacket, allowing her hands to fall into her pockets.

  
“So… wait, what was I trying to say before?” you asked yourself out loud.

“I can’t answer that one for you.”

  
“True,” you smirked. “Wait, okay, I remember now. Were either of the liquor stores close to the locations where the Four---or, where my robber struck?”

  
“Actually, yea, kinda,” she said, “so there’s that, plus the obvious connection with alcohol and food.”

  
“Right,” you replied.

  
“But the biggest similarity between your guy and mine is the type of car they drove away in.”

  
“A 1954 Bel Air?”

  
“No, not exactly the same. It was a ’69 Camaro.”

  
“Damn.”

  
“Yeah, it’s pretty dope.”

  
“Yeah, really,” you remarked. “So what’s the connection, exactly?”

  
“We don’t have license plate numbers for either car,” she said, “but we know that the owner of the Camaro put two skull decals along each of the front doors.”

  
You scrunched your face. “Why would someone do that to a ’69 Camaro?” you asked.

  
“Dude, I know,” she replied, “that’s why so few classic car dealerships sell decals like that. But there’s one in this area who does.”

  
“I can’t believe you were able to track that down,” you said, “That’s pretty incredible.”

  
Diaz’s gaze shot to the floor. “I mean,” she muttered, “I had some prior knowledge about dealerships in the area. I like to fix up old cars and re-sell them. It’s a hobby of mine.”

  
“Oh, wow,” you offered, “that’s so cool!”

  
“Thanks, y/l/n,” she murmured softly.

  
You grinned. “So, where is this place?” you asked.

  
“Why, y/l/n?” Diaz replied, nodding at you. “Are you on the market?”

  
Suddenly, you felt your throat close up. “Am I what?” you blurted out.

  
_Did she just ask if you were single?_ You thought. _Wait,_ you realized, _No!_ _She meant on the market for a car, didn’t she?_ You wanted to bang your head into the wall. _Stupid, stupid,_ you berated yourself. _Concentrate._

  
“Sorry. I don’t think I heard that right. Sorry,” you managed to say.

  
“No, dude, you’re fine,” she replied.

  
_I’m what?_   You thought. _Ugh. Not again. I am a disaster of a human being._

  
Diaz opened her mouth to speak, bringing you away from your momentary plunge into self-deprecation. “I meant are you looking to buy a classic car?” she asked. “Because I wouldn’t suggest this place.”

  
“Really?” you responded, scratching the back of your head, trying to recover. “I was kinda looking specifically for a place where I could also get skeleton decals. You know, do it all in one trip.”

  
“They were skull decals, you know,” she retorted.

  
“Oh, right,” you replied, “huge difference.”

  
“The skull would be much more tasteful.”

  
“Oh,” you chuckled, “absolutely. Forgive me.”

Diaz let out a laugh. And not just any laugh: a snort laugh. A raucous, infectious, completely uninhibited one. You couldn’t stop yourself---now you were laughing in response. For a moment, you both shared a spark of unbridled joy that traveled down your hands and feet and made your cheeks feel warm and flushed. Then, calming herself down, Diaz’s face slid into an easy smile. You followed her lead. As startled as you were by her laugh (because it was, in fact, quite loud), you couldn’t help but take it in like a badge of pride: you didn’t even catch her smiling for the first time until a few minutes ago, yet you managed to make her laugh. Maybe, you thought, this wouldn’t be quite as awkward as you anticipated, working with her one-on-one. But before you could revel in your victory any longer (or overanalyze it any more than you already had), you heard your door swing open.

You and Diaz both turned your heads to see Amy power-walking into your office. In a flash, Diaz replaced any lingering signs of laughter with her usual poker face.

  
“Okay, I’m back,” Amy announced.

  
“How was Family Court?” you asked.

  
“Busy,” she answered. “But what did I miss here?”

  
You and Diaz both glanced at each other, unsure of who should speak first.

  
“Well,” you started, “Diaz was just telling me about this car dealership, right?” you asked, looking at her.

  
“Right,” she affirmed. “Can I use your computer for a second?” she asked.

  
“Go ahead.”

  
Taking a seat in your chair, she swung her legs around to face your desk.

  
“Do you have the list of addresses that your guy targeted?” she asked. You pointed to the binder resting beside your computer.

  
“In there,” you replied. She flipped through the color-coded tabs until she found the list.

  
“Damn, y/l/n,” she said, eyes glossing over the tabs, “You’re not screwing around.”

  
You smiled and looked down at nothing in particular. “You got me there, Diaz.”

  
Amy laughed. “I’d expect nothing less from you,” she joked as you gave her a shy smile.

  
Suddenly, Diaz jolted out of your chair.

  
“Shit.”

  
“What is it?” you asked.

  
Still standing from the apparent shock of her realization, she leaned over your desk, eyes fixed on the computer screen. Opening a new tab on your computer, she typed the addresses from your list into Google Maps, along with two liquor stores close by.

  
“So these are the places your guy and my guy have targeted so far…”

  
Amy chimed in. “Allison Backman is a woman…”

“Dude,” Diaz cut her off, shifting her eyes to you before looking back at Amy, “not now.”

  
“Right.”

  
Diaz nodded at Amy in acknowledgement as she typed in another address, her gaze still on you. “This is the dealership I was telling you about,” she said, pointing to the screen.

  
You and Amy both realized what she meant at the same time.

  
“Oh my God,” she gasped, speaking for both of you.

  
“I know,” Diaz replied, her gold circle necklace swinging forward in the air as she leaned even closer toward the computer, “It’s within ten miles from all of the other locations.”

  
“And it’s almost perfectly equidistant from each of them,” Amy remarked.

  
“Exactly,” Diaz affirmed “there’s a reason our guys chose these places…and why the cars came from this dealership.

  
You drew a sharp breath into your chest. You understood. “So you don’t just think the getaway cars may have come from the same dealer…”

  
“Right,” Diaz answered, “someone from the dealership may have been in on it.”

  
Amy’s mouth hung open. “This is huge, you guys!” she exclaimed. “Even if Backman is guilty, we have to look into this.”

  
“Agreed,” said Diaz.

“So what do you think should we do?” Amy asked.

  
“What if we went in there and pretended to be looking for a car?” Diaz answered. “People in the Brooklyn classic car scene don’t know me as a cop.”

  
Amy scrunched her nose in confusion. “Who are you, Rosa?” she remarked.

  
“Doesn’t matter, don’t worry about it,” Diaz said, “but I think that would be a way to get us the information we need.”

  
“I agree,” Amy started, “but what if they saw my picture in the newspaper? You know, when I got promoted?” She hesitated. “Or…or that awful ad people drew all over back when I was a detective?”

  
“Damn, you’re right,” Diaz replied, “they might recognize you.”

  
“Right…” Amy trailed off. Then, her eyes flickered with excitement as she said:

  
“But they wouldn’t recognize you, y/l/n/.”

  
Worry lines erupted onto your forehead. “What?” you stammered, “but I’m not a cop.”

  
“Exactly,” Diaz chimed in, “that’s why you’re perfect.”

  
“Don’t worry, y/l/n,” Amy reassured you, “We wouldn’t send you in alone. Diaz will go with you.”

You raked through your hair with your fingers as your eyes darted around the office perimeter. There was a reason you chose law and not law enforcement. Working with the local precincts to build a case was one thing---but this kind of police work was completely foreign to you. But you weren’t about to send the wrong woman to prison because you didn’t feel comfortable pretending to buy a car.

“Okay,” you finally said. “So…what’s the cover story? Are we going at separate times or…”

  
“No way, y/l/n,” Diaz replied, “you’re gonna stay with me.”

  
You paused. “I am?”

  
“Definitely.”

  
You took a deep breath in, then out, so the redness rapidly consuming your cheeks like poison ivy would subside.

  
“So we’d go together,” you started, “And we’d have to have some sort of connection.”

  
Amy grinned. “I have an idea.”

  
You hesitated, trying your best to flash an appreciative smile. Although you knew you could trust Amy with anything, you weren’t sure what exactly she had in mind for your cover.

  
Diaz nodded toward Amy. “What were you thinking?”

  
“Well,” she started, dragging the “ll” sound out for just a moment too long, “what would you think if you saw two people, around the same age, looking for a car together?”

  
Suddenly, you understood her idea. But you needed her to say it out loud for you to actually grasp what you knew you’d have to do.

  
“Well clearly we don’t look like sisters,” Diaz remarked, giving you a little half-smile.

  
Amy laughed. “Very true,” she agreed. “That’s why you two should go as a couple. What do you say?”


End file.
